Blank Space
by thatcharminggirl
Summary: My relationship with Damon hasn't been boring in fifty years. But it's never been this exciting.
1. Introduction

My relationship with Damon hasn't been boring in fifty years. But it's never been this exciting.

**BLANK SPACE**

Because darling I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream.

* * *

><p>INTRODUCTION<p>

I used to hate Katherine, and for good reason. I'm not talking about the reasons that you may think. Sure, she tried to kill me, multiple times, and _actually_ killed my brother once, but there was something about her that I always resented. She was so sensual, so sophisticated when she wanted to be. I mean, obviously she was a raging bitch most of the time, but she sure as hell knew how to get what she wanted.

It took me a good twenty years to realize why I both resented _and_ admired the now-deceased vampire vixen.

She was sexy as hell. And she knew it.

It took me another thirty years to figure it out for myself. I may not have Katherine's thirst for blood or wicked instinct for self-preservation. But now? I know a language or two. I can say "fuck me" in sixteen, actually. I can charm an entire bar of people into buying me a drink _without_ compelling them. I can dance in stilettos _while_ wearing the raciest garters you've ever seen without breaking a sweat.

My relationship with Damon hasn't been boring in fifty years. But it's never been this exciting.


	2. Monaco

My relationship with Damon hasn't been boring in fifty years. But it's never been this exciting.

**BLANK SPACE**

Because darling I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream.

* * *

><p>MONACO<p>

I was bored. Damon was currently playing chicken with an arrogant baron at the craps table, and I was done working on my tan. Not to mention, watered down daiquiris weren't nearly as exciting as they were fifty years ago. Apparently the bartender didn't realize that my lover was currently betting their best guests under the table because he kept trying to bring me piña coladas _without _the rum. Seriously? What the hell.

I adjusted my Agent Provocateur suit so that it fell off my shoulders, letting the sun hit every inch of my shoulders. Not that I could actually_ get _tan-lines; I was just glad that I turned when I still had a _semblance_ of color. Damon liked to describe my skin as the perfect combination of cream and coffee, with only a hint of olive. The first time he said it, he was running his hands down the back of my thigh while I lay naked on the beach in St. Lucia.

It had been on our _first_ honeymoon, twelve years after I was turned. Since then, we've been married four times and gone on twice as many honeymoons. I stopped calling him my boyfriend forty years ago; since then, he's been my husband, my partner, my companion, and now my lover. It doesn't matter what I call him, really. He's still mine.

"Mademoiselle," the bartender said for the third time that hour, noticing my empty glass. "May I get you another?"

I looked up at him through my oversized, and overpriced, sunglasses. He was attractive, in a _human_ kind of way. His blonde hair was slicked back so that his ice grey eyes were directly at me, trying discreetly to appreciate my cleavage without me noticing. Not that I minded; I stopped caring long ago. He may have liked to look, but he _never_ got to touch.

I pulled my sunglasses off my face, and batted my eyelashes at him.

"Non merci mon chéri," I said, my voice filled with sugar and venom. I really was tired of the girly drinks; I needed a bourbon.

I could see his flush creep up the side of his neck as he nodded, and leaned down to grab my glass. I tilted my head so that I could get a better look, and licked my lips.

He looked tasty.

All I had to do was place my hand on the side of his neck and bring him gently to my lips. He didn't resist, as if he knew that this were part of the prey-predator circle of life. I felt my fangs descend slowly, as if to savor the moment. I had all the time in the world, and he was too beautiful to rush. He made no sound, and I sunk into his carotid with ease. It was as if his skin were made of butter and just a little bit of salt, and I caressed his neck with my tongue while I fed.

I felt my chaise dip as another body sat down. I didn't need to stop my feed to know who was there; I was glad he was. This was always the most sensual, erotic part of our lives, and it had been Damon that made me understand it. I no longer ran from my nature; instead, I embraced it. There was no changing who we were, and there was no changing who _cabana boy_ was. We were the predators and he was the prey, and just because we fed didn't mean that we needed to kill.

It had taken me a long time to realize that feeding on them was just as intimate and necessary to _their_ lives as it was to ours. It was part of their human experience, just as it was part of our vampire experience.

"Easy darling," Damon said, stroking my calf as I finished my snack. He leaned down so that he could trail kisses from my ankle all the way to the inside of my knee, and I shuddered as I felt the heat of his touch and the warm blood as it ran down my throat and into my body.

I fed for a few more moments, finishing off my meal by licking his wounds closed and placing a small kiss on the bite marks that would heal in a few days time. I didn't have to say anything as he stood; Damon was the one that looked him in the eye this time.

"A beautiful girl just made love to you and it was the most amazing experience in your life. Go now, but don't tell anyone what you've seen here. Keep that memory for yourself."

He said it in French, and I let the words wash over me as if he were saying them to me instead. Damon waited for him to make it back to the bar before turning his gaze on me.

"I've missed you. Let's go back to the room. I bought you a present."

My eyes lit up at the mention of presents, but I pushed my sunglasses back down on my face so he couldn't see. The last time he said he had bought me a present, it was a lap around the Circuit de Monaco track. Not exactly my type of gift; I much preferred the _shinier_ kind.

Damon leaned in, even as I went to grab the magazine that I'd cast away long ago. I felt his fingers move up my thigh, across my hip, and up my stomach. My suit had a plunging neckline, all the way down to my navel, and I could feel as his touch made its ascent toward my breasts.

"Elena," he warned. "Put the magazine down please."

I sighed and threw the useless trash aside. It's not like anything they mentioned in there would entertain me anyway.

"I'm bored," I said without ceremony. I knew that to anyone looking at us from the outside, I seemed like a spoiled brat, tired at her charming lover's attempts at making her happy, but it was far from that.

We had gone through so many different scenarios in our existence that it felt nice to be spoiled for once. Damon had tried to convince me to play the part of entitled heiress plenty of times, without any success. Until now.

This was just part of our game; part of our life that I loved so dearly. We were always in sync, regardless of what one or the other said. I could be vindictive, helpless, seductive, or all three at once and Damon would _still_ be the only one that knew exactly who I was without me saying a word.

And it wasn't like it was completely one-sided either; in the past thirty years, Damon had played a billionaire playboy, sexy boy-next-door, and tortured artist. We traveled the world as partners, creating our own narratives and discovering parts of ourselves that we would have never known existed without one another.

"Bored in Monte Carlo? How can that be," Damon teased, pushing himself up the chaise so that he could nuzzle my neck with his lips. I felt his teeth graze that sensitive spot behind my ear, and I sighed as he kissed my skin instead of break it. "We're in the most beautiful place on earth, with some of the most beautiful people on earth. What would you like to do my love?"

I thought for a moment, letting the feel of his lips on my skin dictate my answer. Monaco really was a beautiful, erotic, free place and I looked around at our surroundings. The cabana we were in sat atop the water, and there were few people in the surroundings rentals. The ocean in the French Riviera was almost too blue to be real, and I got up from my chaise so that I could dip my toes in the water.

"You've been gambling all day, but it's never really appealed to me. Maybe I should try my hand at poker?" I asked, looking back to where Damon still sat on the chaise.

He smiled darkly. "Are you in a betting mood Elena?"

I could hear the undertones to the question, and it caused a shiver down my spine.

"I suppose I am."

* * *

><p>We did go back to our suite, but I locked Damon out of the bathroom while I got ready. It was nearly time for dinner, and we had a reservation at the hotel's restaurant, Le Louis XV-Alain Ducasse. I chose a long Escada gown with lace sleeves and a dipped back, tailored so perfectly that it fit me like a second skin. I rarely let Damon see my purchases before I wore them, and I knew that he would be salivating before our dinner even arrived. Especially when he realized what was on underneath.<p>

The cut of the dress was asymmetrical, so I decided to pair it with a set of Lanvin crystal drop earrings rather than a necklace. I pulled my hair up in a twisted chignon, low on my neck but styled to the side so that you could see the tattoo, the French script so seductively true, running up my spine.

_Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai découvert en moi un invincible été._

A swipe of oxblood on my lips and I was ready to make my debut. Fifty years into our relationship, and the thought of Damon's reaction to me, every single day, never failed to make my heart race in anticipation. I grabbed my clutch from the closet, dropping only my lipstick inside, and opened the door to the bathroom.

He stood at the window, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the Place du Casino below with a glass of Scotch in his hand. I sighed at the sight of him, dressed in a Givenchy evening jacket, the lapels in a black satin. While every other man at the restaurant would surely have their hair slicked back, Damon kept his natural, falling over his eyes slightly. He looked delicious enough to eat.

I made my way over to the window and wrapped my arms around his waist, placing my cheek lightly on his back. He had heard the door to the dressing area open, but made no move to turn or acknowledge me in any way. As soon as he felt my touch, however, he turned into my embrace and held me just as tightly.

"Are you ready for dinner my love?" he asked, stroking my back and looking down at me. I don't know that I would ever _not_ get lost in those eyes, as blue as the ocean along the French Riviera. "You look absolutely ravishing."

I giggled at the compliment, letting my façade drop for only a moment, in the safety of the arms of my lover. "I suppose I am," I said, licking my lips and giving him my perfected shy gaze. He knew better than to try and kiss me; I was fairly meticulous about my lipstick, especially when they wore such a deep color. There would be plenty of time for that later. Until then, he swept down and brushed his lips across my forehead, a sweet gesture in the middle of this austere game we were playing.

Damon offered me his right arm, and I curled my hand underneath and over, gripping it tightly and formally. My heels were nearly three inches high, which meant that we stood tall together, my back straight as we made our way into the dining room. We were used to the stares of the other patrons; I had long ago learned to embrace the attention, and appreciate my own beauty and elegance. My entire human life, I had been clumsy and slightly awkward, and my transformation hadn't occurred overnight. It was almost as if their stares were a silent respect, admiration, for us and how far we had come.

The maître d'hôtel led us to our reserved table near the back of the restaurant and with a view of the water. He went to pull my seat for me, but Damon waved him away, preferring to do it himself. It gave him an excuse to touch me, and he ran a single finger up my laced arm, stopping where my hair met my neck. He leaned down, pressing a firm kiss on the tattoo behind my ear.

"I'm starting to run out of ways to tell you how much I love you," he whispered, and I shivered at the sensation of his warm breath on my cool skin.

"I suppose that just means you need to start flattering me in Thai now," I teased, reaching over so that I could press my cheek against his. He paused only for a moment before making his way to his own chair. There was a bottle of chilled champagne waiting for us on the table, and I smiled when I saw the vintage. 2010. The year I was turned.

The maître d'hôtel opened the bottle with a flourish, and poured us each a glass before placing it back in the silver stand next to our table.

Damon lifted his glass. "To a life filled with passion, adventure, and a little danger. I love you Elena."

I raised my glass to his, and felt tears prick my eyes. It didn't matter how many iterations of this life that we went through, knowing how much Damon truly loved and adored me would never get old. I blinked the tears back away quickly, knowing that there would be time for sentiment later as well.

We spent dinner talking about Mystic Falls, when we would return and where we would go next. The Salvatore mansion was still home to us, as it was to Stefan and Caroline and my younger brother Jeremy. We all spent different parts of the year there, traveling to our villas and penthouses in different cities all over the world in between. The holidays we spent together, along with Enzo and Tyler and Alaric, our strange and slightly dysfunctional family. Every few years Matt would spend Christmas or Thanksgiving with us as well; it had taken Rebekah a whole six months after she left Mystic Falls for New Orleans for her to come back and convince Matt to spend his life with her. His _vampire_ life.

Stefan and Caroline had married before Damon and I did the first time, in a beautiful wedding off the coast of Georgia. Nobody had really been surprised when they fell in love; in fact, most of us realized it before they did. Stefan, as moody as always, was reluctant to admit his feelings for his best friend, but Caroline and her obstinacy refused to let him leave when life got tough. It wasn't until Stefan realized how long his life could be _without_ Caroline that he finally kissed her.

We bought them a private island after that; _nobody_ wanted to be in the same house with them during those few honeymoon years.

"What do you think of Carnival, or maybe Prague?" Damon asked before taking a bite of his lamb.

I thought for a moment. "I did love Prague last time we were there, on our way to Amsterdam," I said, considering it. "But maybe it would be nice to spend time near home. We could spend the Fourth of July on Martha's Vineyard?"

We went over the pros and cons of each place without much thought, but in my soul I knew how lucky I was to have this life. We'd celebrated New Year's in New York City, Christmas in Paris, the summer in Tuscany. We made money wherever we went, gambling and playing the stock market. It all went into an account with the Swiss bank, our safe deposit box filled with the diamonds and gold that we picked up along the way.

Of course our life wasn't always exciting; every once in a while, something would emerge to threaten our family, and we would come together to defeat it before sending it on its way. Vampires jealous of our prestige and power in the _undead _community, vengeful witches trying to push us out of our home in Mystic Falls, and hunters looking to rid the world of the likes of us. It never mattered; we'd all stayed alive these past fifty years, and there was still no end in sight.

"And poker, are you sure?" Damon asked, eyeing me. I considered it for a moment; I much preferred blackjack or roulette. Poker had never really appealed to me before. It was too long, drawn out. I liked betting a lot and winning a lot, quickly. But there was something so erotic when I watched Damon play, considering every possibility before making that singular bet, and placing his chips in the center of the table while we all wondered what the others held in their hands.

Damon was sharp, smart, and absolutely cunning. His personality changed with his environment, something I didn't realize until we were out of Mystic Falls and all we had were each other.

"Yes," I said, sipping the 1992 Dolcetto that had been paired with my duck. I could taste the cherry, and even a bit of raspberry, though the finish was all a bitter almond. "Poker."

"We can't just bet money, of course. That would be too easy," he said, challenging me. I considered it for a moment, and nodded. "And what are the stakes?" he asked.

I readjusted my posture, letting the shoulder of my dress dip so that he could see I wore nothing underneath. He smiled, his blue eyes dark and seductive with anticipation, and raised his glass to his lips.

* * *

><p>We chose a table in le salon privé, each prepared with fifty thousand in chips. I sat first, next to a man that any other woman my age would have swooned over. He couldn't have been any older than thirty, with dark hair slicked back and a cheekbones so strong it looked like they could cut ice. On my left was an older gentleman with white hair, smoking a cigar that I recognized as a Ghurka Black Dragon, the smoke rich and heavy with leather.<p>

There were three others at the table; a middle-aged woman with a severe bob and wide, cat-like eyes. She watched as I sat, not even bothering to hide her discernment of my character. To her left, with one space in between, was a young lady, nearly my own age. She looked sweet and pretty, if not entirely too innocent to be sitting at such a high-stakes table. I could tell by the beading on the delicate neckline of her dress, however, that she definitely had the means to be playing with the rest of us.

Last was a man in his forties, who hadn't taken his eyes off me since I'd sat down and placed my chips in front of me. His hair was greased in a James Dean style far too young for his own years, and he wore a slightly ratted jacket with a thin lapel, ironed so that it sat unevenly on both sides. He licked his thin lips as he watched me, as if he saw me as _his _meal, rather than the other way around.

I watched as the others considered their bets between each flip of the card on the first hand, and folded after the flop, my ten of spades and three of diamonds no match for the pair of jacks and king the dealer turned. Only one other folded as well, the older gentleman next to me, while the rest stayed in the game.

My poker face was better than any of the others at the table, but I wanted to set that precedent. If I came in upping the stakes on my first hand, I would have been discounted as _easy_. I was familiar enough with poker to know that your bluff comes in when they least expect it.

We played two more rounds before Damon came to our table, taking the seat between the two other women. I could see cat-lady watch him with interest that went _far_ beyond the game, and smiled to myself. This was our own game, played for our own fun. We didn't know each other at this table; we were strangers to one another just as everyone else were strangers to us.

On my fifth hand, I was dealt a pair of sevens, and I upped my bet to five thousand dollars. Damon didn't bat an eye as he threw in his chips, and I struggled not to look him in the eye as he did so. Three others reluctantly called the bet, and the dealer turned over the first three cards of the river.

Ace of diamonds. Three of hearts. Seven of diamonds.

I kept a straight face, but tilted my head slightly to the right, as if I were examining my cards in the context of the game. Obviously I knew what my odds were now, but I didn't let it show in my features. I threw in two more chips, upping the bet this round to ten thousand, until it was just Damon, James Dean, and I left in the game.

Fourth card. King of clubs.

I checked, and Damon bet another ten thousand. James Dean called, and I threw in my chips.

Last card. Seven of clubs.

I hid my smile, but licked my lips slowly as I considered my bet. Instead of throwing in my chips, I reached over the table slightly, so that the men across from me could see my chest as I placed another ten thousand in chips at the center. As I straightened, I could see Damon's darkened eyes on me, watching, though he didn't hesitate to call my bet. James Dean was nearly drooling over my cleavage, so much so that the dealer had to remind him to place his bet or fold.

He threw in the chips without taking his eyes off of me. I smiled in his direction with unabashed seduction, and flipped my cards. Damon leaned over the table to see my hand, and smirked when he realized I won. He threw down his own two cards; king of spades and ace of spades. That one was an easy win, but he wasn't about to let me go down so easy.

The next two rounds, Damon killed us all with his bluff. I knew his tells easily, but it just so happened that they were the same gestures that made me go weak in the knees, even after fifty years together. The way he blinked slowly, his eyelids widening as his eyes darkened. His heavy exhale, too quiet for any human ears in the room to hear. The way he shifted in his seat, arching his back as if he were stretching and causing the muscles in his chiseled chest to ripple under his shirt.

He was drinking a vieille réserve cognac, and I could smell the cinnamon on his lips from the barrel aged liquor. It had a distinct smell, different than the drink on its own, and I felt the sudden need to get out of there, preferably with my lover in tow. He smiled darkly at me from across the table, and I looked away, feigning chagrin. It wouldn't be long before he was the one dragging me back up to our suite.

We'd been at the table nearly two hours, conversation between all of us next to nothing, and the silence of knowing that I was wearing something _specifically_ to be taken off, by Damon, was starting to make me squirm in my seat. He watched me as I shifted, attempting to quell the hunger I felt deep in my belly.

The dealer turned over the last of the river cards in the game, and I glanced for a quick second at the cards that I had in my hands. Ace of diamonds. Deuce of hearts.

I had called each bet, partially because the rest of the table was betting low and partially because my attention had officially diverted from the game to something much more fun.

And the river.

Three of kings. Four of hearts. Jack of hearts. Ace of spades. Ace of clubs.

I didn't bother hiding my smile. This was our last game, and I was beating Damon, by nearly forty grand. The last bet had been ten thousand, and only two had folded. That meant the pot was at nearly eighty thousand dollars.

I couldn't help the smug smile that came across my face as I lay my cards on the table.

Three of a kind, aces.

The rest of the table flipped their cards, the only real competition being the sweet young thing sitting next to Damon, with two kings.

I raised my eyebrows expectantly at Damon, who smirked at me from across the table. I felt my stomach drop to my knees as he flipped his cards over, one at a time.

Ace of hearts. Four of spades.

The fucker actually beat me.

I finished my glass of champagne before excusing myself from the table, sixty thousand dollars wealthier than when I began. Damon didn't bother staggering our exit, he stood as I did, and came over to offer his elbow. James Dean watched us with narrowed eyes as we made our way out of the salon and back to the foyer where we could catch an elevator up to our suite. Instead of pausing in front of the doors, however, Damon headed straight for the stairwell. We were only on the fifth floor, but it wasn't like we needed the exercise.

Lord knew that we got plenty of that in bed, as it was.

"You almost beat me back there," he whispered in my ear as he led me up the stairs. His hand grasped my elbow, as to assist me with my balance. I felt the pressure of his thumb in the crook of my arm, and I was suddenly thankful for the help.

We got to the landing, but Damon stopped me before we could open the door to our floor. My breath caught as he pressed me up against the wall, and I could feel my breasts heaving with anticipation. He grabbed my leg through the slit in my dress, wrapping it around his waist and pushing even further into me. "So, about that bet…" he started, but got distracted by the tilt of my neck, allowing him access. He ran the tip of his tongue across the sensitive flesh, sucking gently before plunging his fangs in without warning.

I groaned, the stairwell echoing the sound back to me. To a vampire, there is no better feeling than sharing blood with a mate, than knowing that the same blood runs through both of your veins. He drank, and I felt myself get lightheaded with both the loss of blood and the feel of him inside of me. I collapsed into him, and he withdrew, licking my neck as it already began to heal.

"Bedroom, now," I pleaded, unable to move with his grip on me. He smiled wickedly, and swept me into his arms, one hand cradling my back and one under my knees.

"You don't have to ask me twice," he said, kicking the door open to the hallway. He didn't bother slowing for anyone else that may have also been in the hall, and we were at our door in less than a few seconds. I clung to him as he waved his key in front of the lock, and pushed open into our suite.

I didn't waste time; as soon as the door clicked behind me, I was out of his arms and in front of the bed. He watched with hooded eyes as I turned my back, unzipping my dress slowly and letting it drop off one shoulder, then the other. It pooled at my feet like a discarded bath towel rather than a five thousand dollar dress, no longer necessary for the things I had in mind.

As I had hoped, Damon's eyes were on me like a rabid animal stalking its prey. I wore a steel-boned, red brocade corset, the low back fastened with a web of tiny satin ribbons. I still wore my Louboutins, the heel so high that I was nearly on pointe. His gaze drifted up from my feet, to the nude satin stockings held up by a black garter _underneath_ my lace thong.

I stepped out of my dress, swaying my hips with purpose as I made my way to where Damon still stood in the doorway. Fifty years later and I could _still_ stun him into silence with the right lingerie. I circled him, one finger on his shoulder, and he watched me dance around him from the corner of his eye. He wouldn't let me do more than one repetition around; he grabbed me once I got back in front of him, and I felt his hands kneading the bare skin of my thighs.

He didn't try to be gentle as he lowered his mouth to mine; instead, I felt as he bit my lip, letting it bleed onto both of our tongues. We kissed deeply, licking clean the blood as the wound healed itself. He grabbed my ass, picking me up easily and I wrapped my legs around his waist. Neither of us dared pull away, as if this were our last moment on earth, and together.

I cradled his head in my hands as I kissed him, and he carried me to the bed, dropping me onto my back so that I looked up at him. He was taking his jacket off, but I grabbed his tie and pulled him down to me before he could undress himself anymore. The feel of his body along the length of my own was near nirvana, even with our clothes in the way.

I could feel him through this slacks, his hardness so close to my core that I quivered at the sensation. He was licking my neck and palming my breasts that were far too constrained by my corset. I pushed him off of me with such force that he stumbled backwards, obvious taken by surprise, and I stood up slowly, on the bed, and turned my back to him. I tugged on the satin ribbon of my corset, letting it loosen and then fall onto the bed.

My breasts were finally free, and I turned to see Damon eyeing them with such hunger, as if I were his last meal on earth. I crooked my finger and licked my lips, asking him silently to _come here_. I didn't have to ask twice.

He grabbed my ankle so that I fell back onto the bed, and I squealed as he bounced on top of me. I grabbed his tie again, pulling it over my head and nearly ripping the buttons off of his shirt as I tried to free him from the fabric. As soon as his chest was bare, I reach around his back, pulling him close to me so that I could feel his skin on mine.

He reached down, in between us, and slipped a quick finger underneath the lace of my panties, teasing me without actually taking them off. Instead, he unbuttoned his pants, and I pushed them down with my heel. I could feel it scratch the back of his thighs, and I hoped that I drew blood. He hissed in my ear, and I ran my teeth along the crevice of his shoulder, tasting the salt on his skin.

I still had his tie in my hand, and he tugged it down so that it was in between our bodies. He unwrapped it from my grip, slowly, torturously, before turning his gaze back to length of my body, up my breasts, and to my swollen lips. I couldn't look away, even as I felt the silk of his tie wrap its way around my wrists, one and then the other.

"Now," he started, tightening the fabric around my wrists, "about that bet…"

* * *

><p><em>Votes on where they go next? Leave them in the comments!<em>


	3. Boston

My relationship with Damon hasn't been boring in fifty years. But it's never been this exciting.

**BLANK SPACE**

Because darling I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream.

* * *

><p>BOSTON<p>

January in Boston was freaking cold. Like, I grew up in Virginia and wasn't completely unused to snow, but this was different, _cold_. This was the type of chill that went straight through six layers of clothing and directly to your bones.

I was supposed to be a freshman, but I wasn't entirely sure if I could get through three more winters in this godforsaken place. All I could think about then were beaches in Bali and the sun in California. I mean, who _actually_ decides to live in a frozen tundra? Seriously?

That would be me.

For some odd reason, I felt that three college degrees and a masters in English wasn't enough for my indefinite lifetime. And because I'd now been to Yale, Princeton, and Stanford, my obvious next choice was Harvard. I'd liked the campus when we visited last spring. When it was a _balmy_ forty-eight degrees. _I can do this_, I thought. _This isn't so bad,_ I assured myself. So, with a trip into the admissions office, I compelled myself a spot in their next freshmen class.

Damon didn't want to be left behind, of course, but he was tired of going to college. I couldn't exactly blame him; I didn't doubt that I would get bored of the whole game eventually either. Just not yet. And while I declared a concentration in art history, Damon had _legitimately_ found himself a job in the Romance Languages and Literatures department teaching Italian. Apparently that's what happens when you have two PhDs and a villa off the Amalfi Coast.

My focus in the art history department was on the Renaissance, specifically Botticelli's commentary of the _Inferno_. Clearly the _irony_ of my chosen field wasn't lost on any of us – Stefan had actually _laughed_ when I brought up the Third Circle (Gluttony) at dinner one Christmas. Let's just say that Caroline wasn't exactly thrilled at my chosen topic for such a _celebratory_ meal.

What do you know? A language course was required for that particular degree. Purely coincidence, of course, and I obviously should have been shocked when I found myself enrolled in _Professore Salvatore's_ Beginning Italian with all of my freshmen classmates. The thing was, I'd learned Italian way back in the 20s, while spending five years living with an adoptive family in Abruzzo. Not to mention, Damon loved to worship me in one of the five romance languages while we made love.

I was still pissed that it was cold while I walked to my class with my sexy _professore_. It meant that instead of the tiny schoolgirl uniform I had envisioned for my first day of class, I had to wear tights. _Wool_ tights, _underneath_ pants. And a sweater, and a jacket. And a scarf. And boots.

Not sexy.

The chill didn't affect me _as much_ as my human classmates, but I couldn't exactly traipse through campus with bare legs without at least one side-eyed glance. I didn't mind the attention, but I also didn't want people to think that I was just some hussy out to impress my _severely _attractive new professor. Because I knew for a fact that I wasn't the only girl in the class with a crush.

The lecture hall wasn't large; there were seats maybe for forty people, and only half were filled by the time I arrived. Damon wasn't there yet, though I was the only one who knew why he would be a few minutes late. I could still smell him on my skin, but he was the one that had to wash my red lipstick off of his body before he could face his class.

I chose a seat near the back, and quickly stripped off my jacket and scarf. At least my sweater was cut a little low, my bustier pushing my breasts up, pale and pink from the cold. The first row was filled with other young women, either eager to get started on their Italian studies or just waiting to finally see their new professor in person. This was Damon's _second_ class on Tuesday, and he'd had three the day before. News of _Professore Salvatore's _face _and_ accent had already made its rounds; I had a feeling that there were more than a few women trying to wait list the class after hearing _that_ particular bit of information.

Everyone was pulling out their laptops while I just grabbed a notebook and pen from my bag. Call me old-school (because well, I was), but I still preferred to handwrite my notes in class. Not to mention, it could give Damon an unobstructed view of the goods. I wasn't surprised when I saw quite a few bare legs in the front row, but that screamed desperation to me. I loved a good seduction, but I believed in the power of subtly.

The professor didn't walk in until nearly five minutes after class was meant to start, and I had to stifle a giggle when I saw his still-wet hair starting to frost from the chill. He threw me a warning glance so quick that even I wondered if he'd looked in my direction. Nobody said a thing, but I swear I saw a particular blonde in the front row drool onto her desk as he made his way to the front of the room.

I couldn't blame her; he looked positively _edible_ in a pair of dark slacks and a white button down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He took off his signature leather jacket, throwing it down on the desk, and there was audible sigh from the entire front row as they took in his taught chest, strong shoulders, and muscular forearms. Forearms that had been holding himself above me not even twenty minutes before…

"Buonasera studenti. Il mio nome è Damon Salvatore, ma potete chiamarmi Professore Salvatore," he said, causing a collective swoon from nearly everyone in the room, men _and_ women. His accent was beyond perfection, and the words dripped off his tongue like pure sex. I didn't hear much of what he said after that; just let the tenor of his voice envelop me, until I was nearly panting along with the rest of them.

I had closed my eyes, letting myself get lost in his voice; the same one that put me to sleep every night, tucking me in with words of love and adoration. When I opened them, he was looking directly at me, his eyes dark and aroused. I wondered if he could smell what his voice did to me, how drenched I was under my jeans and under my tights.

I dragged a fingernail down my breast while he watched, drawing just a small amount of blood from the soft, supple flesh, and brought it up to my mouth. He didn't take his eyes off of me, and I wondered if anyone had noticed.

Good. I hope they did.

I licked the blood clean off of my index finger, letting my tongue slip out of my mouth only slightly so that I could lick my lips once my finger was clean.

Throughout all of it, he didn't skip a beat, just kept talking to the rest of the class, who held onto every word he said, even if they couldn't understand just yet. On the board behind him were Italian greetings written in his perfect script, even and elegant. Hearing his voice just say those simple words made my heart beat so fast, I knew that he would be able to hear it.

_Buongiorno._

_Arrivederci. _

_Ciao._

_Come si chiama?_

_Mi chiamo…_

_Come sta?_

_Bene, grazie._

How was it that literally _just_ saying "Hi, my name is…" soaked my panties and made me want to drag Damon out of here and into his private office? I knew that it was just down the hall with the rest of the department, next to another hot, young French professor that had already tried to get into my lover's pants. From what Damon told me, the easy ones were also the most delicious, her blood only slightly sweetened by the strawberry blonde of her hair. He promised me a taste next time, and I licked my lips in anticipation.

I didn't realize when he told us to find a partner so that we could practice greetings until everyone started arranging their desks to face the person next to them. Another student, a boy close to my own age, had already angled his own chair so that he was facing me, apparently deciding for the both of us that we were meant to be partners. I didn't doubt that it had something to do with the cleavage that was about to burst from my sweater.

He was cute, in a college kind of way, and obviously arrogant. I could tell by his clothes that he wasn't the first in his family to attend Harvard; he seemed like old money, groomed to take over his family's law firm, or maybe medical practice. The school was prestigious, of course, but I'd yet to see many guys wearing a tie to class, let alone a sports jacket.

"Ciao bella," he said, reaching for my hand so that he could kiss it. "Come ti chiami?" I nearly laughed at his game, but I turned it into a shy giggle instead. He didn't drop my hand, so I leaned in slightly, giving him the perfect view down my sweater.

"I'm not sure I know what you're saying," I said, batting my eyelashes. "I don't know any Italian yet; it's not fair that you already know the language if you're in this class."

I could see a predatory smile come across his lips. He knew what he was doing, just not _who_ he was doing it with. I had to give him credit for that; I didn't doubt that those few words had gotten him into the pants of quite a few young ladies.

Damon had given me many wedding and engagement rings over the years, but I didn't wear them all the time. Not that _this_ young Don Juan would have recognized a ring on my left hand. But this was part of _our_ game, and it was one of my favorites.

He didn't drop my hand, but started caressing it instead, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

"Mi chiamo Ethan, Ethan Carrington."

I giggled again, this time to hide the very _unladylike_ snort that just tried to come out of my mouth. His accent was atrocious, perhaps from some ill-conceived attempt to learn the language online, probably in an effort to impress some dimwit like me.

I could feel Damon's gaze on us, and I risked a glance in his direction, feigning as if I were just checking the board to see what my options were. I bit my lip in a ridiculous attempt to look flighty and stupid, causing him to lick his own.

"Mi chiamo Elena," I said, making sure that my accent was even worse than his.

"Piacere di conoscerti Elena. Sei la ragazza più bella che abbia mai visto."

I widened my eyes, as if I knew nothing of what he was saying. _You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life._

Why thank you. I know.

He was still holding my hand, and this time I brought his up to my lips, flipping it over so that I could press a kiss to his palm. His skin was soft, unsullied by any physical or manual labor, his hands just as delicate as any woman's. He hissed as he felt my lips on his skin, but didn't make a sound as I sank my fangs into the soft area right below his thumb.

As a new vampire, all you care about when feeding is the blood. It's all the same, and you want it all. But eventually you realize that blood is just as complex as any wine or brandy. Every person has their own unique varietal, the nuances of which are determined by their age and personality and experiences, among others. It can be as pure as water, or spicy and addicting, with hints of fig or pepper. It can flow through veins like a current running down the mountain after a winter of snow, fast and desperate, or slow and lazy like a river waiting for the dam to break.

I savored Ethan's blood as I let it sit on the back of my tongue, identifying each individual component that I would have never noticed if I just let it down my throat without pause. It was dark at first, the flavor bursting through as soon as it reached the oxygen of my breath. I was surprised by the sweetness of innocence, and something distinctly male; clove, perhaps, but with a touch of smoke. With all of his _Casanova_ intentions, it was apparent that he had yet to truly feel the love of a woman. Perhaps that was why he was trying so hard with me.

_Professore Salvatore_ was watching us, though the rest of the class was too busy with their own introductions to notice. He was amused, never angry, and I lifted my lids so that I could watch _him_ while I fed. He shook his head, as if we could read each others' minds.

_No, not this one. But we'll bring someone to bed with us soon._

I pouted, letting myself bring Ethan to the brink before finally releasing his hand.

"Non è mai successo, ma mi ami lo stesso. E sono davvero la più bella persona che tu abbia mai visto." _This never happened, but you still love me. And I really am the most beautiful person you've ever seen._ His pupils dilated as I did, and I turned my desk back to the front before he even woke from the stupor that I had induced.

Damon went on for another few minutes, in English this time, letting us know of the assignments throughout the semester and what we should practice before our next class on Thursday. He dismissed us, turning back to the board so that he could erase the greetings. I wasn't the only young female waiting behind, I'm sure so that they could ask if they could get some _extra_ instruction.

There was a time when people thought Damon was heartless and rude, unwilling to sacrifice his own comfort for the good of someone else, but I had demolished that reputation, quickly and without a second thought. My partner believed in good because _we_ were good. Before finding me, he had always been searching for _something_ that he couldn't identify; that one decent thing in this world that could convince him of the beauty in life.

It wasn't enough to have just _me_; neither one of us was _perfect_ on our own, but together, we were _enough_. Together, we could give life the meaning that we needed in order to continue on this path, indefinitely. Together, we were enough to shed every inhibition, every fear about humanity and what our true place was in the world.

That's why I wasn't surprised to see him talk, individually, to every student that stayed behind. I still sat at my desk, my back straight but not formal, waiting for him to finish discussing assignments that his students didn't particularly care about, but that gave them an excuse to talk to him one-on-one. And as the last one left, giggling with stars in her eyes, I followed her out, slinging my own bag across my back and tightening my scarf.

"Miss Gilbert?"

I had identified as both Elena Gilbert and Elena Salvatore throughout the years, but each name made me feel different as I heard it, especially coming from Damon's lips. I felt that rumble in my belly, that anticipation of _knowing_ what was next without really knowing what, exactly, he was going to say.

_Miss Gilbert _made me innocent, young again, as if we hadn't spent the past fifty years exploring ourselves and one another. It brought me back to my human days, so far in the past that I shouldn't really remember it, but my vampire senses never allowed me to let go. I still remembered the first time that Damon touched me, his hand on my back, so that I could pass him in the kitchen. I still remembered kissing him for the first time, on my porch, when we thought our lives were about to end. And I still remembered that moment when he told me loved me, for the first time, and then compelled me to forget.

Hearing him say that name, _Miss Gilbert, _made me feel like the naïve college student that I was supposed to be. Not a vampire in love with her professor, but a regular girl, worried about the essay she needed to write for her Theory of Art History class.

"Yes Professor Salvatore," I turned, right before I left the room. The students in front of me just let the door close, which meant that we were alone, together. In his classroom.

"I noticed that you weren't paying attention to my lecture earlier. Was I not _exciting_ enough for you?" he asked. I felt myself squirm under his gaze, stern and unrelenting. We were still ten feet apart, at least, but I can feel the heat off his chest. I can see the outline of his arousal underneath his slacks. That alone is enough to propel me forward without much thought.

"I'm sorry Professor Salvatore," I said, perching myself on the edge of his desk and loosening my scarf. "I promise I was listening."

He considered me for a moment. "But the young man standing next to you was far more interesting than I was, wasn't he?"

I looked up at him, drinking in the accusation in his gaze. "Well, I mean, he was very cute and spoke Italian!"

"Spoke Italian? I'm pretty sure I heard him _speak Italian_ and I know for a fact that no one from Italy would actually be able to understand him." He scoffed, and took a step closer. "I, on the other hand, can think of exactly forty-seven ways that _I_ wouldn't mind seducing you in the language."

I brought my finger to my lips, as if to think about it, and threw him the most innocent look that I could come up with. He growled, and launched himself at me. I was expecting though, and I was up and away from the desk before he even knew that I was onto him.

"I can't imagine that this is acceptable behavior for a professor," I admonished, pulling my scarf off and throwing it on the table. I watched as his eyes grew wide at the sight of my breasts that were already pink and healed from my _tease_ earlier. This time, when he made his way toward me, I didn't try and run.

He was so close I could still smell _me_ on his breath, and the combination with his own unique scent was intoxicating. I wouldn't have been able to run away from him even if I wanted to. He had me in his net and there was no way we were leaving this classroom with our clothes still intact.

"Miss Gilbert," he said, leaning in so that he could run a finger down the flesh of my chest, "I do believe you may be correct, but there's just something about you…" he trailed off, unable to form a coherent sentence once I had his lip in between my teeth. I felt myself draw blood, and licked it clean before opening my mouth to him. I breathed us in, the scent of blood and arousal and _me_ on his lips.

This, us, together, was more natural that being on my own after this long. We still drove each other crazy, in so many ways, but he was mine and I was his. Forever.

Damon pushed his entire body into me, nearly forcing me onto the desk that was now digging into my back. I hopped up willingly so that I could wrap my legs around his waist. We fit together this way, perfectly, naturally.

He had his hand up my shirt, about to feel me up like a common teenager when the door to the classroom burst open. We were so caught up that it took a good few seconds for us to realize that we were no longer alone and peel ourselves away from one another.

"Um, Professor," the interruption was one of the little blondes in the front row of the earlier class. Her legs were bare under a short denim skirt, though at least her feet were warm enough in a ridiculous pair of Ugg boots.

I pulled my shirt down as Damon tried to adjust himself inconspicuously in front of the student. "Yes, Miss…" he trailed off, expecting her to finish. She didn't catch on right away, her focus on the very distinct bulge in the front of Damon's pants. I had to hide my snicker, and grabbed my scarf to tie around my neck as a distraction.

"Mills," she said quickly, taking a step forward. She eyed me nervously, but it quickly changed from confusion to accusation. I didn't particularly care what she saw or wanted; she wasn't about to leave this classroom with this specific memory intact.

Damon raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Oh, well I was just wondering when you have office hours? I tried learning Spanish in high school, and it was kind of a disaster, so I thought maybe I could come and get some extra tutoring in between classes." This girl obviously didn't understand the art of subtly, though it had taken me nearly fifteen years to master the _true_ art of seduction. Perhaps she thought _bumbling idiot_ was sexy to a world-renowned professor, but she was sorely mistaken.

I went to grab my bag, no longer interested in whatever game this student was playing. I needed to get Damon home, and out of those pants, as soon as possible.

She watched me with a smug smile as I passed her on my way out of the classroom, her attention immediately back on Damon as soon as I was out of her line of vision.

I'd also learned the art of the _hunt_ in my fifty years as a vampire, and how and when to leverage the element of surprise. There was something innately sensual about catching a human off-guard, muffling the sounds of their screams with a kiss or strategically placed hand over their mouth.

So she didn't even notice as I turned back, though Damon was faster. In the time that it took for her to blink, he was standing in front of her, his eyes dark and wild with hunger. The girl was too startled to even react before he could compel her.

"Stay still, and stay silent," he said, and looked up from her to where I stood only a few feet away. "Elena, my darling, why don't you come join us?" His smile was dark, but familiar to me, and I felt my knees quiver. The anticipation of knowing that I was moments away from experiencing the raw sensuality of a hunt with Damon was making something deep in my belly ache. He reached around her as I drew near, grabbing my hands with his and lacing our fingers together so that we caged our prey in between us.

I could smell lavender and soap on her skin, unsullied by the irritating scent of a strong perfume or sickly sweet lotion. Though she stayed perfectly still, I could see drops of perspiration as her consciousness began to realize what was going to happen to her. Yet, no sound left her lips.

It could be seen as cruel, to hunt without anesthetic or promises of safety, but she wouldn't remember the experience after this singular moment. And her adrenaline was like a drug to us; we could smell it as it ran through her veins, drawing out of us a pure, unemotional need to _feed_.

Damon drew his hands back to his sides, causing me to step forward so that all three of our bodies were flush together. I was so close to the girl that I could see the red, oxygenated blood pumping through her arteries and under her skin. The effect was dizzying. Damon's hands enclosed my own, and his primal essence mixed with the human scent of our prey between us. He was practiced enough that he could consume without spilling a drop, but I watched as he lowered his mouth and ran one of his fangs along the length of her collarbone, slicing the skin open neatly.

I lowered my own lips, careful not to lick the wound so that it would heal from my venom. Instead, I suckled gently at the sharp curve of her shoulder blade. I could taste him on her skin, and drove me wild with lust. I opened my mouth wider, plunging my own fangs into the soft tissue and relishing as the warm blood flowed from her body and into mine. She was nourishing my body, but it Damon that nourished my soul.

He released one of my hands so that he could reach up and stroke my hair. My empty hand moved instinctively around her torso, holding her tightly to me, and his other hand held me tightly to him. In his arms was my perfect place, and in his arms is where I would be, safe, for the rest of my life.

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><p><em>Votes on where they go next? Leave them in the comments!<em>


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